Among The Iridescent Stars
by YourLoyalBlogger
Summary: Part 3 of The Stars Series. Following his recovery in Britian and overseas, Sherlock returns to London to resume his life. As he struggles to return his old world he finds himself facing new adversaries, new mysteries and new adventures. Follows Series 3. Sequal to And The Stars Shone Brightly.
1. Recovery Is No Holiday

**LOOK ITS A CHAPTER!**

**I'm sorry this has taken so long but I've been going through writers block. Wasn't even able to write my other two fics, despite having the basic plot planned out already. Idk how often this will get updated, I still have a lot of free time on my hands at night to write, but the issues I have with series 3 still remain. How much to include, what to do about Mary? Do I include him getting shot like in HLV, when he was shot in the previous story? I really hate decisions.**

**Before I begin, another piece of news, we have a new kitten! She's a tabby mix of some kind, her fur kind of glitters much like a bengal and she's as curious and silly as our previous cat. But so, so affectionate! Her name is Pippa and she's a dear, and a bit of a nerd herself. (loves the doctor who theme and tv in general, loved the hobbit as well).**

**I tried to include where he was but I'll have to do it in chapter 2.**

**So...I can't promise this is an amazing start, and if anyone wants to help me with it, via me rambling ideas about what could happen, then message me! Otherwise...without further ado, I bring you the first chapter, of part 3 of what I've now fondly called, The Stars Series.**

* * *

_Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night._

_- Sarah Williams. (The Old Astronomer)_

* * *

Lounging on a red and white folding chair, beneath a large black umbrella, was a tall, skinny detective. Ex-detective in truth, originally he'd been a "dead" detective. Now he was just a person, unemployed, bored and unfortunately ordinary. He hadn't yet returned to his unique occupation and had even debated whether he should. It had only got him trouble, not that there was anything wrong with trouble, but certain kinds were more dangerous than others. And those were the ones it was best to avoid. For his own sake and those of his friends.

The possibly-not-a-detective-anymore, arranged his book to shield most of his face from the harsh sunlight and attempted to drown out the screaming children, the gossip, the shouts of glee from the water. It wasn't an easy task. He grumbled to himself, removing the book and glaring at the scene laid before him. Men in darkly coloured board shorts strutting alone the beach front, trying to impress those not interested, surfers waxing their boards, women in scantily clad swimsuits, children in brightly patterned bathers, screaming at the top of their lungs. Crying because a sibling stepped on their sand castles, or because the salt water got into their eyes.

_People._

_Isn't it hateful?_

"I highly doubt that it is, brother mine."

Sherlock jumped, his head turning to his right to find the chair next to him occupied. He toppled out of his, largely to be dramatic, but frankly no one would blame him. The other chair was now occupied by his brother, in, _oh it was awful._ Half a suit, bright orange board shorts with a pattern of giraffes and socks with green flip-flops. _Think happy thoughts, Sherlock, at least he's not wearing crocs. _He closed is eyes and then opened them, no, the hideous sight was still before him. This couldn't be real, could it? The Mycroft he knew would never think to dress this way, certainly not in public, whatever he did in private was his own affair and Sherlock shuddered thinking about it.

"It's a dream, Sherlock." _Oh thank God. ...Wait.._

"Good. I thought perhaps I'd gone mad."

"Well, there's still time." Mycroft looked at his pocket watch. _Could you please leave? People might see you and think we're related._

"Piss off."

"Gladly, however I'm here with an important message."

"And what is that?" Sherlock was still covering his eyes.

"Wake up."

"What?!"

_Wait... hold on a second!_

* * *

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" Something poked him hard in the shoulder, something that felt suspiciously like the end of an umbrella. And would not remain one if it didn't stop it's incessant jabbing.

_Piss off, Mycroft. _Sherlock groaned and removed the book off his face, tempted to through it at his annoying older brother.

"Ah, he wakes. Welcome back brother mine. Enjoying your holiday?"_ Shut up and go away._

"Why are you here?"

His brother gestured to one of the larger beach houses behind them, one in cherry red, and slowly headed in that direction. Grumbling, the younger man stood, dusted sand off his rash vest and followed. At least he could be thankful he was wearing a three-piece suit this time, although in this heat that alone was ridiculous.

Although it was larger than some other beach houses, it even had a deck, it was still a small hut. But it fit a tiny kitchen, two arm chairs and a tv, with a partition at the back hiding a single bed and a loo. Nothing but the best for a Holmes. Sighing, Sherlock Holmes collapsed into one of the armchairs, throwing his arm over the side and glaring at his brother. This had all been his idea and so far this "fabulous beach getaway" had been boring, cloudy and plain nauseating. He had no desire to get in the water and he looked out of place in his shirt and shorts when everyone else wore barely anything.

"How long do I have to stay here?"

"At least until the end of the week. Make the most of it, dear brother, swim for a bit at least." _Otherwise what is the point?_

"With all those people?"

"It will be better for you then staying inside here like a hermit."

_Fine. If I must, I must._

He'd have to suffer for the next five days. At least he didn't have to stay at the beach, he could go out and look at the shops, which was almost as bad, see the sights or stay in his hotel room. Or remain in the beachhouse. None of his options seemed particular interesting or worthwhile. He supposed he could browse some of the stores for cheap souvenirs, or see a movie at the outdoor cinema. He would prefer to just sit inside and read, but his friends had paid a large part of this holiday and he should at least try to enjoy himself. Even if his mind rebelled at stagnation.

"Are you going to answer my previous question, Mycroft? Why are you here?"

"I come bearing gifts." His brother deposited a small pile of envelopes in his hand as well as two packages. "Now if you excuse me, I'm going to try and make some tea. Or something that passes for it."

But Sherlock had stopped listening. His friends had mentioned writing, but he honestly didn't think they would. Surely they'd be busy and how would they even know where he was half the time? It was originally decided that he would visit several places during his convalescence, something he'd objected to. But here were the letters, and there were some parcels, so someone had was tipping them off, and that someone was in this room. Bloody Mycroft can't keep his nose out of anything. Putting the packages aside, Sherlock picked an envelope and ripped it open.

It was from John. A disgustingly cheerful message, asking how he was, had he got a tan yet? Brought anything? No mention of his own life other than gossip. He put it aside, the next one was from Molly, hers was much the same. Milton was fine, and oh she fancied someone she'd met at a party. Why tell him? So long as he wasn't a psychopath he'd be fine. Boring. Lestrade talked about a few cases he was having trouble one, but contained mostly the same as John's. Mrs Hudson's was soppy and embarrassing to read.

"Interesting?"_ Please shut up._

"Not really."

"Too bad."

The first parcel was wrapped in cheap green paper with a tacky gold ribbon. Inside was a black towel, bordered in red. A crime scene towel. Interesting, thought Sherlock as he searched for the tag. It turned out to be from Molly, of course it was. He'd brought a towel, blue and yellow but this was more to his taste, not that he'd even swam yet. Nestled inside the towel was a packet of his favourite biscuits. _I better keep those away from Mycroft, _he thought, wrapping them back up in the towel. The second parcel was from John. Wrapped in plain brown paper with a sleek red ribbon. It contained The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. Good, Old John. He was nearly finished this boring mystery novel. This should last him for awhile. Plus he still had two Agatha Christie stories in his suitcase.

"How lovely." _No seriously, can you go away?_

Sherlock huffed, put everything aside and climbed out of his chair. He poured the remaining tea from cheap teapot and took a sip. It was horrible, but it would do. He'd had worse. Mycroft watched him with amusement. His brother was slowly returning, but he would never be the same as before. Even if he hadn't suffered, chasing after Moriarty's web, faking his own death. These things would have always had a lasting effect on his sibling. But perhaps, that wasn't a bad thing after all?

"How long are you staying here?"

"I'll leave tommorow, don't worry. Oh, and before I forget." Mycroft removed a small blue envelope and placed it on the counter.

"Tickets? Where to this time?"

"A delightful little place in Sussex."

Sussex?!

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**Was that alright? If you thought so, you know what to do!**


	2. Honeycombed Hideout

**Sorry this one is largely text and not much speaking. And it's a bit...blah. Still I hope you enjoy it.**

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_Hope is the only bee that makes honey without flowers._

* * *

_Boredom. The state of being bored. Dullness, lack of excitement. Lack of anything interesting. Life, right about now. Nothing is duller than travel without a thing to occupy ones mind. _Mycroft's idea of entertainment involved a few interesting files and probably vintage wine. Well, on the surface perhaps. There were certainly a few guilty pleasures that would never see the light of day. Or only seen by the privileged few. Sherlock however had already sped through two movies and was halfway through one of his books before he gave up. Nothing was holding his interest, his thoughts kept straying. Where was he going, really? What was John doing? What will he do after this? Was this to be his life for the next several months? Just constant, boring "holidays"?

And endless questions? If only something interesting would happen. Just once would be nice. Just a little. Perhaps that is too much to ask for.

* * *

The cottage was run down, coming apart at the seams, almost bursting in some areas. Greenery covered almost all of the brickwork. The yard hadn't been mowed in years, the garden overflowing with flowers, bushes and weeds. However, Sherlock reserved his judgement for the inside. After all surely his brother wouldn't have sent him here on purpose? Unless the driver had mixed up the other old cottage houses. The door needed a strong kick before it would open and Sherlock cautiously entered and fumbled for a light switch. Well...if he thought the outside was bad. The inside was terrible but in an entirely different sense.

Someone had a fetish or at least an obsession for bees. And Nineteen-Seventies interior design. The carpet a pattern of yellow and gold brown honeycomb, there were framed pictures of bees and their anatomy. A bouquet of flowers sat on hallway table, inside an old honey pot reminiscent of Winnie -The -Pooh. Sherlock left his bags in the hallway and wandered inside. The living room had a large fireplace, several comfortable armchairs in dark orange. There was at least a modern entertainment system but the seventies design continued into this room as well. And worse, it looked new. He had nothing against bees themselves, marvellous little creatures, but there was a limit.

_B~RING! __B~RING!_

The phone interrupted with an shriek, but he didn't bother to answer. He knew who it was. Sherlock let it go to voicemail while he removed his shoes and socks. The carpet was remarkably soft between his toes.

*Sigh*

Alright, Sherlock. Have it your way. I do hope you enjoy the cottage, despite all appearances it is actually a delightful little place. It's been in the family for years, though it is usually a Bed and breakfast. Currently the outside needs some work before their tourist season. So do make the most of it will you?

*Cough*

On the kitchen table you will find a map and itinerary which you are under no obligation to follow, but it would be wise to at least attempt a few things on the list. The bedroom is upstairs, actually there are two but yours is the only one unlocked. It's small and quaint but I have been assured that it is very comfortable. Well now, brother mine. I must be off, shall I send kind regards to your dear friends? I shall see you in two weeks. Have fun, Sherlock

* * *

The bedroom was indeed small, and in various shades of red and brown. There was only a single bed, a chest of drawers and a desk. As well as one bed side table. At least the carpet wasn't a honeycomb pattern. But a fluffy warm red. unfortunately the bed spread did, in red and white. And the pillows had bees. Well you couldn't have everything. So long as it was comfortable. Sherlock threw a suitcase on the bed and unzipped it. He might as well unpack a few things, if he was going to be here for a few weeks. Not the clothes though, they could stay where they were. A few books, a tablet, toiletries and his pyjamas was all he unpacked. As well as a small framed photo of his friends. He felt ridiculously sappy about it, placing it on the bedside table and turning it away from him.

The pyjamas, and dressing gown they were wrapped in, he put on. Why wear tight suits when one is trying to relax, when you could wear loose and comfortable pyjamas? Though the suits certainly had their appeal. Sherlock yawned and left the bedroom to have a wander and explore his new home. Didn't his brother mention there was something in the kitchen?

Downstairs and through two doors, Sherlock found a averaged sized kitchen that included a small, round wooden table and some chairs. On top of the table sat a large manilla folder. Sherlock sat down and rifled through it's contents. _  
_

_• There is a market on every sunday, perhaps you could "check it out?" brother mine._

_• There are historic houses and castles available to visit or tour._

_• Do not visit the beehives behind the cottage, Sherlock. You will disturb them._

_• I have identified three spa/sauna and pampering locations on your map. They may do you some good._

_• Do pay attention, Sherlock._

The rest of the list was as yawn inducing as the first few items.

___Boring, boring, unlikely to visit, no, nope, never. _

___Why Sussex? _

There were a few things that stood out but it was largely filled with dull activities that would probably appeal to ordinary people and perhaps on the odd occasion, Mycroft. Sherlock left the folder and it's contents strewn across the table and began opening every door in the room. The plates were all shadows of yellow, the mugs had smiling bees and honeycomb. The fridge was packed with his favourite food and a large quantity of milk. And there was a great deal of honey.

He supposed it make a small amount of sense. There were bee hives in the backyard, according to Mycroft's notes. But there was such a thing as going overboard on a theme. Still, the honey would be useful. He did actually quite like honey, it was sticky but sweet. (Sherlock was fairly sure that at one point this had been used as a description for his child self. Though he wasn't so certain about the sweet part.) And it could go with anything and everything. Whether it was wise to do so or not. The ex-detective removed one of the large bottles of milk and a huge tin jar of coffee and dropped them both on the marble counter.

* * *

Two cups of coffee, half a jar of honey and an episode of Castle later, Sherlock found himself testing out the bed. Springy but soft. Would be very good for jumping, if he was so inclined. He got to his feet and stood on the bed, walking over to the window opposite and closing the curtains. He allowed himself a mere second of a jump before pulling back the covers and slipping beneath them, switching of the bee patterned lamp.

His thoughts and worries could wait another day.

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**Was that ok? Do let me know!**


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